


He Adored Be

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (some in future chapters but you should know what you're getting yourself into.), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Domestic Violence, Gaslighting, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The suburban sprawl is a petri dish and Dean is an isolated specimen, plucked individually by God under examination. Worship comes in many forms, and what God craves is Dean's romantic love, and Dean's affections. </p><p>As Dean rebels against memories Cas tries to stop him having, the idyllic American Dream disintegrates into manipulation, into Leviathan's puppeteering, and into the destruction of the beloved, righteous man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Chapter I**

Cicadas send eerie whines through the red brick, almost enough to drown out the rabbled voices spewing from the television. The natural warmth has plateaued into the afternoon's yellow chokehold. Dean feels it in the thin perspiration dotting his brow, the way moist droplets have made the beer in his hand slippery. He pauses, with it halfway to the barren lips, and tries to strain to hear anything beyond their constant chiming. Lawnmower, maybe. Cars moving past. Someone laughs far away. He drinks and his eyes drift back to the flatscreen, tuning in and out of the soap opera's dull dialogue. There's the sound of a housefly, but if it is truly within his home or not, he can't make out.

His sense are on alert for no reason, but when the smooth purr of a motor creeps up on him, he is thankful for tuning in. Home early. Dean has an odd feeling that if he weren't so dazed by the monotonous sunbake he'd know that signalled something bad. Cas was usually busy until late on... Tuesday, he guesses, without really caring or knowing the day of the week. They fade into each other. He dances on his toes in a rushed, comedic manner, washes out three of the beers, and carefully drops them into the recycling bin with little more than a clink. A tumbler lines up in the lock, the front door swings in, and Dean's back on the couch. Two beers. Cas wouldn't mind two beers. Cas barely glances at him as he sits in the straight-backed chair beside the couch, haloed by a reflection off the kitchen counter.  
"Someone's home early," Dean says, after a moment, with a fleeting glance over at the ruffled man in his stupid, inappropriately dense coat, and his loosened tie.  
"You've learned to read clocks. Commendations," Cas gravels out. He never used to be sarcastic, but 'Dean' as a set of mannerisms rather than an individual seems to be contagious. Dean blinks, but doesn't miss a beat in his retort.  
"Someone's a little bitchy today. Crowley riding you hard?"  
" _I_ am his boss," Cas returns flatly, proud and unfazed. Amazingly, Dean notices, he hasn't even cracked a sweat. Other than the perpetually ruffled look that Dean swears is deliberate, he's his usual impeccable self.  
"Whatever, dude. You's not exactly overjoyed at the moment. You look like you just got a rectal exam from Freddy Krueger. You want to talk about anything?"  
"You wouldn't comprehend it," Cas mutters, walking through to the kitchen. "I've told you to keep our living environment clean, Dean," he calls through bitterly. "And I know when you've drunk more than you pretend to. I appreciate honesty from you."  
"...thanks, honey. I missed you. How was your day? Oh, good, yours? You want to get out the stress somewhere more private? Not until I've taken you out for dinner first-" Dean conducts a sarcastic, two-sided conversation with himself, jumps a little when Cas rounds the couch looking stoney.  
"Let us recall, Dean, that I pay for this house. I am the one who got Sam into Stanford. You will show me the respect I deserve."  
"This bullshit again? Thank you, lord and master, you're too kind to an insignificant piece of vermin such as I-" The sound of the slap comes before Dean processes that Cas is moving at all, and he flinches and blinks in absolute confusion. Cas isn't done, grabbing Dean up by the lapels with a strength the slight man should not be able to exert.  
"You should respect me, _boy_ ," Castiel hisses, "...you should show your Lord the devotion he is due." He shakes Dean, who is loose like a cadaver, arms swinging. He doesn't fight back. A nosebleed, from no blunt trauma, springs free. It trickles rusty and clinging down his lips. Cas's eyes widen. He deflates, and two fingers barely anoint peace onto the sweaty brow before tears spring into his own eyes. Dean is collapses like a sleeping child, healed, and curled up into the couch.

Dean wakes up to hear the door open. It's later, purpled and swollen light trying to latch into every corner of the room. The clouds are tumours that flourish with a storm. White brushstrokes form in an instant and are gone, the clattering gunshots shaking the perfect suburban street. Dean gazes out of the window as the lock turns. "...hey, Cas. Long day?" Dean asks, staring out the window, trying to shake the violent dream from his mind. Cas's hand wraps around his waist, lips ducking exhaustedly to Dean's neck.  
"Long day. I love you. You're my light, you know."  
"You're my light, too," Dean says softly, gazing up at the lightning. It illuminates them, bathes them in cold angles of clarity. Still, Dean doesn't notice the single tiny splatter of blood on the sleeve of the coat.

Later that muggy night, Castiel rests from his work. The two lie coiled up into each other, Dean's collar and neck marked with fresh bruises, his wrists red and raw from the powerful grip. Cas was unwinding. Honestly, he's grown fond of the little bite marks that indicate Cas's stress. Dean wakes, lips dipping into the pucker of that constant frown on Cas's forehead, and then he simply climbs out of the bare, damp bedding, into the shower. He scrubs off the lingering warmth in the cold water. He keeps feeling watched, and when he shampoos his hair, eyes closed into the stream, for no reason he has to gaze around, stare at every corner of the room. Retired hunters never lose their instincts, says a voice that sounds like his own. Dean's never shot an animal in his life. After he retired from his job at the burger joint, he'd moved straight in with Castiel. He needs him, for all of his eccentricities. Cas really did save him- his salvation. He can't help but internally praise the patience of Cas in him, and his forgiveness. Dean checks his phone. It's 3:15, and Sam would be well and truly asleep. Dean still wants to call fairly desperately. He returns to bed to lie next to Castiel, curl a hand around him, nuzzle into his chest. He dreams oddly that night. A proud, dark woman literally exploding, gore dribbling down every surface, an emotion like betrayal, but deeper. More basic. He wakes mid-morning, alone. The repetitive heat is already all around him. What day is it? Tuesday? Dean waits patiently for the weekend. He can drive and visit Sam. Cas will come with him. This feeling of being enclosed is beginning to make even his subconscious unbearable. Dean cracks a beer and sits down with his lunch, to watch a soap opera. He's sure, now, that the fly is inside the house.


	2. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Action without consequence is dangerous indeed. A man can come to rely on his tormentor as much as he relies on his saviour; if they are one, he's certain without hope.

**Chapter II**  
  
Dean moved from 5.3% to 52.9% ABV at 11:00. Two hours after midnight, in this caged feeling of miserable frustration, the transition is marked by his dizziness, and the way his temper swirls and rises uncontrollably. He'd been set to go to see Sam, this evening. Six o'clock departure to the 6:30 reservation at the steakhouse that also did excellent salads, according to Sam. Bobby had promised to show up on time, and everything. Cas had promised this morning- promised that he'd be back in time to go. But when it came time to go, and then it passed time to go, and then time to go was naught but a distant memory, Cas didn't turn up. Dean called four or five times unanswered before Cas's phone must have been turned off. Dean began drinking, and hasn't stopped since the apologetic phonecall to Sam. His number was engaged, which was... probably just as well. Dean wouldn't have been a very pleasant conversation. He texted him next, and got a painfully short reply.  
 _'I get it. See you sometime.'_  
As always, the more he drinks, the more bitter he becomes.

 

Eventually, Dean’s vindictive rage gains direction. The nuclear warhead veers onto its path. In the artificial glow of the early morning, Dean drops his jeans from around his waist, opening Cas's precious laptop, and not even bothering to 'private browse' as he googles. Redtube should do the trick. It takes a few minutes of clicking before he finds a video he likes. He watches for a minute, half-heartedly stroking himself. He's not feeling it. A few more clicks, and it's an asian girl dressed up like flight attendant, and a beautiful blonde businesswoman. He chuckles, and finally forgets himself. He'll have to just leave the tab open, he decides. Cas should know he's not the only way I can get my rocks off. He sucks his lips together, loosely, volume louder than he usually leaves it. The giggling gasps meld in his ears. Dean leans back slightly, anger fading. Then the sound stops with a snap. The laptop looks broken by the force. Dean didn't see Cas enter, but enter he must have, because he's standing across the coffee table. The glare is so heated it could ignite the Arctic. Dean meets it with an amused, equally wrathful smirk. "I don't like you interrupting unless you have plans on satisfying me, baby," he drawls.  
"You're _drunk_. Again."  
"I'm drunk because you're late."  
"You child. You couldn't even manage one night without me taking care of you?" Cas growls, advancing around the table. Dean isn't afraid of him, and stands sloppily to his feet.  
"Listen, dick, you're the one making commitments and not keeping them-"  
"And you're oggling a pair of actresses. You're drunk, and worshipping another. You're angry at me. You're breaking so many of my commandments."  
"Commandments? Wow. Better dismount that fucking high horse. You're not the Lord Almighty, you arrogant douchebag, you're a corporate businessman with a bit of a power complex, and that's about fucking it." Cas doesn't slap him this time. He grabs him by the arm, twisting it behind his back, marching him across the room. Dean stumbles in front of him, trying to keep his feet, trying to keep up. His body rings and vibrates with the collision with the wall. The arm Cas has is twisted higher, and Dean winces.  
"...apologize."  
"Fuck. You. If you're into that whole religious roleplay, dude, you can buy a fucking clerical collar, but it's better to keep that sorta shit between you and Kink.com," Dean's winded, but it won't shut him up. There's stinging in the corner of his eyes. He doesn't cry. Castiel clearly doesn't like that, from the huffed inhale at Dean's neck. Then Castiel pushes him once more, drops him, and walks over to inspect the damage to the laptop. Dean scrambles to his feet, running into the bedroom, locking the door behind him, fumbling to grab the phone. Panic squeezes him like a vice, like he's being choked. He barely has the phone off the cradle to call the police, call Sam, before there's an icy grip on the back of his neck.  
"There's no point in doing that. They won't come."  
"Let me go, asshole," Dean whispers, squirming. He can't put together how Cas got through the door. His legs give out, and Cas hits him with an open hand. Dean drops to all fours, raggedly sobbing, enraged and terrified.

  
"Do you not always say that you love me?" Castiel asks in a dangerously heated tone, pulling Dean along by his hair. "This is your chance to worship, Dean."  
"P-please, Cas, don't make me do this. Not now. I love you-"  
"If you love me then you'll seek to honour and please me, will you not? The righteous man will rest genuflect in worship for his God?"  
"Cas, buddy, please, you're not making sense-" Dean says and then yelps in a muffled manner as blunt nails dig into his scalp. Tears bead his eyes, and a confusingly soft hand wipes the tears as Castiel's zip sounds. There's nothing involving for Dean. It doesn't seem like sex, it seems like violence. An absurd, violent dream. For all the many times he's knelt before Castiel, he's never felt so wholly broken by the act. He's too scared by Cas to disobey. Castiel's eyes are closed, breathing ragged hums of contentment, letting Dean's tongue lathe and circle sensitive skin. The floorboards are beginning to bruise Dean's sharp knees. His legs shake, seeking balance. The hand in his hair becomes a puppeteer's, taking too much of his weight. Dean's crying both in shock and pain, thoughts a constant stream of disbelieving jokes, trying to make himself feel like this was normal. Like this was okay. Cas doesn't understand why you're scared; he's simply taking a powertrip too far. He loves you. Dean chokes as he dragged higher, released with enough to force to choke him. He swallows weakly at Cas's cock, to the extent that he gags messily. He's ignored, the gesture repeated. He can feel his chest shake, as he tries to make sure his teeth stay behind his lips, make sure he still rakes shallow breathes through his nose. Everything smells sordid, like meat hanging in a butcher's shop. Then, with no warning, Cas speaks, soft and sensitive. He doesn't let Dean have an inch of freedom.  
"I had to kill many of my brothers and sisters today. They didn't understand. They never stop. I have to do this to maintain sovereignty. Their bodies... like moths under a lightbulb. Like fallen flies, wings spread, forever still. I was so angry. I can't let you remember this, Dean. I can't lose you too. You're all I have." Cas finishes sloppily over Dean's bruised lips, fingers digging into Dean's scalp. A glance up terrifies Dean more than anything else- there's a trickle of black running out of Cas's eye. Dean falls backwards, onto his hands and knees. Cas refastens the belt, tilts his head down at Dean.  
"...Cas, please, I love you-" he begins, head spinning. Castiel squats, catching him into a powerful, supportive hug. He brushes fingers over his forehead, squinting guiltily.

  
Dean wakes on the couch, Cas's arm around him. The evening coalesces into a lively, soft darkness. Dean blinks, smiles up lovingly at Castiel, shaking off that painful feeling. He has a nosebleed- Cas frowns in concern and begins cleaning it off with a tissue, supporting Dean against him. "...Cas, I had a... had a bad dream about you," Dean mumbles, not yet grounded in reality.  
"Bad dream?"  
"...'s all good now. You wouldn't hurt me. Love you." Dean mutters, dropping his head against the supportive figure. "You know I- shit, _shit_. I was supposed to be at dinner, I-"  
"You looked too tired. I called and cancelled. Sam understood." Dean relaxes a little at the words. Cas's fingers thread under his chin, turning up the stubbled chin. Dean gazes into calm, tired blue eyes. "I want the best for you."  
"You're the best for me," Dean mumbles. "We can just.. hang out together tonight, right? I miss you, when you work," he murmurs, and Cas nods. Dean's lips catch the hollow of his neck. This is the real Castiel. Not that horrible, nightmarish vision. Cas, man. Bobby should have trusted him. Cas would never work with Crowley. Wait, _what_? What does that mean? Why did I just think that? He's distracted by Cas's embrace, the way Cas supportively holds him.  
"You need to sleep. Come on. I'll tuck you in," Cas's voice sounds odd around the words. He carries Dean to their bed, past the spot on the floorboards that makes Dean cringe. The phone is back on it's cradle. Of course it is. It's barely evening. A nightmare is just a nightmare, and it's already fading from his memories, just like the unsettling, nonsensical thoughts.  
"...there's... mosquito or somethin'. Bug inside. I hear it. Whining," Dean mumbles senselessly, pulling Cas alongside himself.  
"There's no bugs, Dean. You're imagining it," Cas whispers, and Dean nods. He's again asleep, drifting into a dark sleep. Castiel unblinkingly watches him, pretending to be asleep when he wakes as usual in the night. He hears Dean throwing up in the bathroom, retching into the white bowl. Chemical smells mingle with bile. Insects are too loud in Dean's ears, when he curls up to try to sleep again. They are chorus of screaming angels.


	3. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is peace in the Doldrums. An stark peace that brings silence through slow dehydration, yes, but it is peace.

**Chapter III**  
  
Bobby's place in South Dakota is an ominous mottled blue as Sam paces through it, eyes twitching in a conversation that is not really occurring. It's like he's underwater, like he's drowning. He's the only one awake this late (or early). Bobby slumbers, reeking like spilled bourbon, loosely curled into the sheets. Dean's too tired to be afraid right now. For the first time since his best friend had announced himself supreme authority, he has a pleasant dream. Dean sees a white picket fence, a peaceful street. Blue skies up above, and an arm around his waist on a faceless figure. He doesn't need a face to go with it, he's in love with the idea of being protected and loved as much as he could be in love with a person. Nothing happens in his dream, only adding to the sense of serenity that encapsulates him. Peace never last for Dean. The appearance of a blood stained angel staring down at him doesn't wake him (silent staring and nothing more) but the cool breeze as the figure advances seems to creep through his veins and arteries. There's ice lining his lungs, hollowed out and replaced with the chill. His hand fumbles, and the handgun is safely within his hold. Finger rests on the trigger, delicate and embroiled within the safety of the weapon. This takes place in a fraction of a second, though. He bolts upright, forgetting the fight, forgetting the past, and speaks with plaintive worry. This bridge between dreams and harsh reality where Cas is just his friend again.  
"Jesus fucking Christ, Castiel. Is that blood?" Dean gasps, the gun still levelled. Cas's hand moves in a smooth sweep to straighten the bloody tie, tilting his head to regard the jittery human with cold engagement. Just as suddenly, the gun splits in Dean's hand, falling into separate components. Dean is left clasping a useless trigger guard and grip. Dean's lips part, slightly, setting it down, glaring up with bleary eyes. Cas speaks softly.  
"I am your God. Do not train a weapon upon me, I will not forgive it again."  
"God. _Right_. Why have I been graced with your presence?"  
"I can give you that. What you dreamt of. What you had with Lisa. You need only worship me, and you'll be safe, at peace. I will forgive your brother."  
"What do you mean forgive my brother? You mean you'll fix him?"  
"I mean that I am merciful, if you show your devotion to me. Sam will be shielded once more from his suffering... you need only agree to love me. Is that not fair? Has that not always been God's condition?"  
"Cas. It's me. It's Dean. You can quit the freaky S &M devotion crap, honey. Kind of trite, and you're too skinny to pull off the leather daddy get up. _Dean_ , remember?"  
"I know your name. I can see I overestimated your ability to put others before yourself. So it has always been," God says softly. "I know, Dean. You can only lie to yourself so well, and I see it all. You are in love with me."  
"I'm not gay, but good job keeping up with the narcissistic-inflated-ego theme you seem to be going for. Really rocking it."  
"You are attracted to me," God returns coldly, advances, crosses the distance without a step. He simply is an inch from Dean, gazing unblinkingly into Dean's eyes. "If you lie again, I'll burn your tongue out of your mouth."  
"...you're not Cas. You're a murderous piece of shit. I wouldn't fuck you with about fifty condoms keeping my junk from touching you."  
"I'm not Cas any more, then? You said I was not a minute ago, Dean. Interesting, how you'll simply jump to whatever conclusion best suits you."  
"Yeah, I totally suck. What I'm doing is way worse than coercing someone into sex. Listen up, Almighty, special prayer especially for the occasion. Our Lord in my bedroom, go and forth copulate with thyself."  
"Oh. No. That's not how I'd like it at all, Dean. You see, when I desire you, when the urge strikes, you will yield to me. I'll make sure of it," Cas murmurs, closing his eyes. When Bobby wakes, Dean will be gone, untraceable. No amount of screaming at the sky will bring him back. Dean won't even remember what he lost, except in ugly, forgotten snippets of dreams. It's a full night's recuperation since Dean missed out on dinner with Sam. Not that he remembers. He barely knows where he is, what the date is. All he knows is that this life is good, safe, serene. Cas tells him so, tells him how lucky he is. Cas doesn't lie to him.  
  
It must be a weekend, or a day off. Cas is awake beside Dean, delicately tracing his troubled features with curious fascination. Dean's teeth barely show, a tiny dimple forming with his smirk, but he doesn't open his eyes. Cas's finger dances around his eyelids, across his brows, and when it reaches his lips, Dean parts them to allow a tiny point of wetness as access. Nightmares don't have a place in sweet, dewy mornings. Castiel's tiny intake of breath is reward enough to encourage Dean to brush his tongue gently across a satiny fingertip. Nothing like Dean's calloused scars. Dean has the upperhand for a second before Cas moves suddenly, kicking out of the sheets and straddling Dean, holding him into the bed with his thighs alone. Dean doesn't mind, opens his mouth a little wider, lets saliva coat the fingers. Cas's smile doesn't show, brows furrowed slightly, but Dean can tell from the spearing pressure into hipbone that he's not the only one enjoying this. His legs spread, for an anchor. Dean's arching as best as he can, neatly pinned down like a cut of meat. There's that same predatory glare, but now his mouth smiles. Then the prying fingers open his lips and force him to suck each digit, keeping the head pinned in place with a forearm. Cas leans over him heavily. "...good, boy." Castiel murmurs, delightedly now. His hips grind and Dean chokes as he tries to force a digit too far, without preparation. Cas looks delighted, forcing his lips further apart. Then the fingers slide in further, choking him again, and then he wipes saliva across Dean's cheek. That hand pins across his throat now. "Now, you're mine, aren't you?" He whispers. Dean whimpers with arousal, as Cas slides off, slides the boxers off hipbones and casts them aside. "Take off your shirt," he mutters, scowl back. Cas waits until Dean's hands are over his head with his shirt before he pins them down. He stretches Dean out, chuckling low in his throat, nudging against him. "Keep your hands there, or you're not going to get around to enjoying this," he continues, fishing out packet, tearing it deftly and hoisting Dean's calves behind him, spreading the legs with more force than he should be able to exert. He lingers this way for several seconds, slipping two fingers against Dean's tight muscle, watching his chest shake and his eyes plead silently. He enjoys how he tries to squirm into more contact. It's enjoyable to see a bobbing vocal chord, a ripple of anxiety, the flushed pink skin inflated, nerves hypersensitive. Dean is shaking all over with the need to obey. That's just how Cas likes him. He'll see. Mine. All mine.  
  
He wrenches the sounds from his mouth with the knowledge of this body. Then he loses himself and forgets Dean's undoing, and his deconstruction and all the plans he had for making him _beg_ until the Righteous Man, body and soul, belonged to God. His fingers dig bruises into his hips as he stills Dean's gyrations, making him whine and plead a little more. He writhes onto the two curled digits, green eyes staring at he roof rather than Castiel's almost imperceptible smirk. Cas isn't happy about that. "Watch me," he orders, as he pulls out of Dean, slicking himself. The arousal is a secondary desire, but no less relevant as he readjust the position of Dean's hips. Finally, Cas growls in pleasure rather than frustration. In his mind, wars are silenced. Screams give way to a peaceful serenity, and empty, stretching plane of grey nothing. His eyes are open, but unseeing, as Dean pants out tiny encouragement.  
"Please, more, Cas, I want you to fucking destroy me. Drop the slow, romantic act, you pussy, and put some muscle into it-" Not wise. Cas's pleasure interrupted, he scowls and jerks Dean smoothly off the bed, carefully keeping their hips aligned with godly strength, and then without giving him a chance to acclimatise to the intrusion practically drops him, letting Dean's weight force the contact, watching the knees brace against the bed and growling with pleasure as Dean whimpers in pain. He grabs a handful of Dean's hair, makes him rise again.  
"What did you just say to me?"  
"...'m sorry- o- Cas-" Cas jerks him back down again, chest rumbling with approval as Dean arches his back. Cas's lips circle a bruised nipple, sucking brutal, bright points all around before he flicks it with his tongue, catching Dean again and this time using his own movements to steer Dean. He grabs Dean's hands behind his back. He watches the eyes roll, the muscles and expressions twitch through fear, arousal, amazement. Castiel drinks it all in, watching him and worshipping Dean in his own way, carefully manipulating the experience to force Dean to feel everything he tries to shy away from. Dean feels so smooth, so tight around him that he forgets himself soon enough. He hangs against his collar with sharp bites, panting. Dean finishes messily, eyes rolling as Cas continues. His mouth is open, delicately pink cheeks, lashes fluttering. Cas is close enough to see every tiny blood vessel underneath his cheeks. It's the awareness that does it. This is permanent. He is mine forever. God sees white, sees nothing and everything from where he's sagged into Dean's fluttering heart. He holds him close for several minutes. There's no sound but the stilling breaths of Dean. Cas doesn't need recovery time. He pulls away, pressing a kiss over Dean's forehead, then, finally, onto his lips in a soft, chaste manner.

"You are beautiful. I love you, Dean. We're going to shower, and then I'll leave for work. I'll buy you pie on the way home... come along, now. Come with me."  
  
God spends a solid three hours examining various pie varieties. He picks one from a French bakery, just out of central Paris, watches it being assembled. The perfect buttery pastry. The caramel brown of apples broken down by hours of slow cooking. He hands over scrunched notes, collects the cardboard container. He doesn't go to Dean right away. He is watching a peaceful sun rise and appreciates the perfect peace he has brought unto this world. The darkness, the insanity and the voices aren't prominent. Castiel has conquered. He is stronger than them.


End file.
